


revolution

by ell (amywaited)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cute, Discussions of violence, Fluff, History, M/M, Scars, Slice of Life, discussion of scars, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amywaited/pseuds/ell
Summary: Carlos isn’t surprised by that, not at all. Night Vale is, at its core, a very stressful environment. He says, “I suppose I have a good incentive to stay.”Cecil’s blush is the exact same shade of pink as the sunset outside.
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	revolution

**Author's Note:**

> title from [revolution 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmsXsIv2Ppw) by the beatles because thats just what i'm listening to while i post this.
> 
> cw for mentions of death/murder (very brief), and discussions of violence & scars but nothing too graphic.

It’s late when Carlos leans against the window in their bedroom. He’s watching the sunset bleed across the sky, pinks and purples all melding together into an amalgamation of magma. The sun itself is nothing more than a half-circle on the horizon, turned a deep orange-red, and Carlos feels like its looking further into his soul than anything else ever has when he stares at it. 

The carpet creaks behind him. Cecil’s arms work their way over his shoulders, long fingers finding the divots in his collarbones and running over them. It could almost tickle, but it doesn’t, so Carlos leans back into the touch. He can see the very faintest outline of their bodies in the window as it gets darker, sees their reflections intertwined together but wobbly enough that parts of legs or hands or torsos blink in and out of existence if he looks at them for too long.

“How was work?” Cecil says into his ear, pressing the words down on Carlos’s skin. Carlos hums. The glass is cold against his skin.

“It was okay,” he says, and the air steals his words away. It was okay, as far okay as anything ever could be in Night Vale. Cecil makes a small noise in the back of his throat and sends it reverberating all through his chest and into Carlos’s back. Carlos asks, “how was your day?” in return, wondering if Cecil will work together a far fetched tale for him or mix it with the truth.

He pushes his nose into the back of Carlos’s neck, and his breath makes Carlos’s hair stand on end. “It could have gone better,” says Cecil, “it could have gone so much worse too. There was a body found on the riverbanks, and several others turned up whilst we investigated.”

“A murder?” Carlos asks.

He feels more than sees Cecil’s shrugs. “We’re not sure yet. There’s no obvious cause of death, but when has that ever stopped anyone? It’s no problem at the moment, though,” he says, “unless, of course, they were killed by malicious spirits and I’m being haunted now.”

Carlos laughs through his nose. Hot air sticks to the window. “I hope you’re not. We only just got rid of the last one.”

“Mm, I know,” Cecil says. His voice takes on a deceptively lower baritone, bouncing all through Carlos’s rib cage as he says it. “But you needn’t worry, my dove. Everything will be sorted out soon enough, I’m sure.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” Carlos says. He twists around in Cecil’s embrace, so his back is to the window and he can look up at Cecil properly. He cups Cecil’s cheeks, feels his features move as he breathes and speaks. “I know everything will be fine. I’m more worried about you.”

“Why would you be worried about me?”

Cecil sounds so unexpectedly confused that it sends a spike of confusion through Carlos as well. He counters by saying, “why wouldn’t I be worried about you? You seem to get targeted by spirits more often than not, particularly when you report on murders and homicides. You get hurt.”

“I don’t get hurt,” Cecil says. Carlos deliberately runs his finger under Cecil’s shirt to trace around the winding scar on his left side. He’d gotten it after a vicious run-in with some kind of dog/zombie/skeleton creature before anyone (before Carlos) could subdue it. It had given Carlos some incredible results when he’d finally gotten his hands on the corpse, but Cecil’s involvement had been thoroughly distracting at the time. Cecil exhales slowly. “Fine,” he amends, “I don’t get hurt that often.”

Carlos sighs too. He knows it’s a lie, he knows Cecil has gotten a hundred and one different scars, each with its own memory. He says, “would you tell me about all of them?”

Cecil starts to shake his head. Then he pauses. “Would you really like to know?”

“I want to know everything about you,” Carlos says. It’s far more candid than he would have liked it to be, but it’s still true. Cecil recognises it for what it is - a casual declaration of love and dedication - and takes it at face value.

He pulls his shirt off. The sunset spreads across his chest and abdomen, lighting his skin up with a golden ethereality. He looks like a god. Carlos moves his hands from Cecil’s cheeks to his forearms, holding on like he’d never like to let go. In the low light, he can just about make out the marks curling over Cecil’s body, and he strokes his finger over one on the top of his right shoulder.

“Where’s this one from?”

Cecil places his hand atop Carlos’s. “When I was eleven. I fell into a window and down a flight of stairs.”

“Really?”

Cecil nods. His expression is relaxed and open, and Carlos believes him. He moves his hands from Cecil’s shoulders to his pectorals and the several scars there. 

“What about these?” he asks, admiring the three slashes cutting into the skin. The skin has been twisted, marred brutally, and while the scars are ugly, Cecil wears them beautifully.

“A dragon,” Cecil says, and it’s said so genuinely that Carlos almost believes him until he sees Cecil’s smirk.

He levels Cecil with a playful glare. “Yeah, okay. Where’s it really from?”

“I did a piece on big cats a few years before we met,” Cecil explains. “Night Vale was dealing with an infestation at the time, and we were trying to get it under control. I was reporting on the protection and containment efforts when one of the cats got free and launched itself at me. Thankfully, they were just big cats, and the wounds healed fine. We got them all rounded up by the next week, and started talking about a wild cat exhibit at the zoo.”

“The zoo doesn’t have a wild cat exhibit, though.”

“No,” Cecil agrees, “it was decreed that the cats would be too boring for the exhibit, and we’re not in the habit of torturing animals for fun in Night Vale, so we put them up in the jail cells until an exterminator could remove them for us. Some say that their roars still haunt the prisons.”

“So when you say big, wild cats,” Carlos says.

“I mean big, wild cats,” says Cecil, “as in, the fancy tigers and panthers. All of them, really. They’re remarkably elegant creatures.”

“And Night Vale had an infestation?” Carlos says. Pre-Night Vale, he’d have been concerned, and afraid. Now that he lives in Night Vale, he’s almost surprised by how regular it sounds.

Cecil nods. “An infestation, yes. It was all cleared up quickly, though. Which was almost a shame. There was a lot of protesting to bring them back.”

Carlos hums. He’s more hung up on the fact that Night Vale had somehow managed to have an infestation of lions. He rubs over the scars left for a few seconds longer before scaling his hands down and lingering against the round mark on Cecil’s rib cage. “What’s this one from?”

Cecil twists slightly to see the scar that Carlos indicates. “Oh. That one. I’m afraid that one doesn’t have such a happy ending.”

“That’s okay,” he says. Carlos hadn’t expected all of Cecil’s stories to end happily. It would, he thinks, be incredibly naive to assume that they would. He steps up closer to Cecil so he can tuck his head under Cecil’s chin. 

He feels Cecil’s throat bob when he swallows. “It was the first time I had reported outside of Night Vale. There were reports of something happening over in Desert Bluffs, so I went to investigate.”

“Alone?” Carlos asks.

“No,” Cecil shakes his head. “Some of the Secret Police followed me. But when I went to talk to some of the residents, I was alone. That was when it happened. I must have said something one of them didn’t like, and they struck me with something. I never did find out what it was. But it burned like the fury of a thousand suns, and I don’t remember much of what happened after that. The doctors at Night Vale General told me I passed out.”

Carlos finds himself biting his lip. “But you were okay,” he says, which is the only thing making Cecil’s words bearable. It’s somewhat easier to hear them when he has Cecil’s pounding blood beneath his fingers.

“I was okay,” Cecil agrees. “I had nothing to show for my report, except for a burn scar. We never did get to finalise the piece on Desert Bluffs. In fact, I hardly even remember what we were supposed to report on in the first place.”

Carlos tries to hide his worry at the idea of Cecil losing memories. He’s torn between fierce, if ill-timed, protection and inappropriate scientific curiosity. Cecil doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, it’s perfectly healed now,” Cecil says. He wraps his arms around Carlos and squeezes just enough to be comforting. “There’s no point in worrying about things that have passed. The only thing I regret is that I never got to finish my report.”

“If you forgot, it can’t have been too important,” Carlos manages to say. His eyes trace around the circular scar again, stuck somewhere between acknowledging the past and hating that someone had ever hurt Cecil.

“Quite right,” Cecil says. This time, he guides Carlos’s hands to a small pock mark just to the right of the small of his back. Carlos runs his fingers over it several times, feeling the depression in his skin. “This one was from Khoshekh.”

“Khoshekh? Really?”

Cecil nods, deadly serious. “Yes. It was when he first appeared in the bathroom, and none of us were particularly sure on how to manage him. I stepped up first, and got nothing for my trouble. He wouldn’t even let me stroke him.”

“So how’d you get the scar?” Carlos asks. He’s always thought Khoshekh to be relatively passive, calm and quiet. He’s never heard a meow, and the only noises Khoshekh releases are purrs and strictly non-malicious growls.

“After several other people had attempted to make his acquaintance, I returned,” Cecil explains. “I attempted to stroke him, and he let me. I thought it was a success, until I turned my back.”

“He must have some sharp claws to make an injury like that,” Carlos says. He traces his fingers over the pockmark once more.

Cecil shrugs. His musculature twitches under Carlos’s hands. “I suppose so. We don’t tend to get… average cats in Night Vale. I wouldn’t know what was unusual or not.”

“Me neither,” Carlos says. His family had been strictly zero pets, and then he was off to college and university and barely able to afford to take care of himself. Then he shipped himself straight off to Night Vale. “You know, I can barely remember the last time I saw a cat that was from outside Night Vale.”

Cecil makes a sort of face. “How interesting. I suppose they wouldn’t like our town if they weren’t used to it. Cats are supposed to be exceedingly clever, aren’t they?”

“There are multiple reports of cats identifying things like spirits and ghosts,” Carlos agrees. He doesn’t mention that he doesn’t particularly believe in the scientific accuracy of said claims, but he’s also never had a cat to detect ghosts for him so he decides to pass judgement (but only so far).

“That explains it,” Cecil says. “Night Vale is, after all, teeming with ghosts and spirits. It’s no surprise that non-native cats don’t like it here. You know, I’m surprised you’ve managed to stay here as long as you have.”

“What do you mean?” Carlos frowns. In all honesty, he hasn’t noticed any of the apparent spirits. He wonders if they’re something he should have paid attention to. 

“Just that you’re not technically from around here,” Cecil says. He squeezes Carlos between his arms just a tiny bit tighter, forcing them closer together for a second. “Most people wouldn’t be able to last more than a month due to all the environmental stress.”

Carlos isn’t surprised by that, not at all. Night Vale is, at its core, a very stressful environment. He’s certain that stronger men than him have succumbed to its lure. He says, “I suppose I have a good incentive to stay.”

Cecil’s blush is the exact same shade of pink as the sunset outside. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope u liiiiked. i feel like the carlos/cecil tag is slowly dying. my fault for joining a dying fandom??
> 
> let me know what you thought!!
> 
> stay safe & take care everyone.


End file.
